


special

by plapcat



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Aged-Up Yuri Plisetsky, Established Relationship, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Skype Sex, ragging on viktor nikiforov for absolutely no reason, viktor i'm sorry man i really am
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-15 22:00:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9259289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plapcat/pseuds/plapcat
Summary: “Of course you’re special,” Otabek said with a frown. “What makes you think you aren’t?”





	

**Author's Note:**

> Here have some gratuitous Skype PWP. I don't even know what inspired this I just... wanted to write it.
> 
> Not beta'd or anything.

“Of course you’re special,” Otabek said with a frown. “What makes you think you aren’t?”

Yuri sighed, his hands stilling. He hadn’t expected Otabek to react to those words, said so flippantly, but really, he should have. Otabek was always more perceptive than people gave him credit for.

Silently, he slipped his fingers out of his half-done braid and reached for something out of shot. He’d been trying to teach himself how to fishtail, with Otabek taking up one half of his monitor and a not very helpful guide on the other, but it was a lost cause. He’d never be as good as Lilia.

He kept his eyes carefully trained on Otabek’s face as he lifted the offending object up to his camera. Despite the reflected image, it only took the other male a few moments to get it, understanding flooding over his usually stoic face.

Yuri could see it, too, in the bottom right of the monitor. It was one of Russia’s trashiest newspapers, full of nothing but gossip—and usually, Yuri would just have passed it by without giving it a second thought, but his own image had been splashed across the front page, parallel to the infamous Viktor Nikiforov. The similarities were striking; Viktor looked elegant and graceful, something Yuri always strove to accomplish, and now that he was growing out his hair, people were starting to connect the dots.

“Russian Fairy Grows into Prince!” he recited from memory, as Otabek’s eyes read the same thing. He continued, quoting the smaller font that the camera wouldn’t pick up. “Yuri Plisetsky, age 18, has solidified himself as contender in men’s ice skating. But as his style develops, the critics are left with one question: is he simply copying Viktor Nikiforov, age 31, now retired from the scene? It is a well-known fact that Nikiforov influenced Plisetsky in his youth—”

“Stop.” Otabek’s command was simple, but it cut Yuri off immediately. He lowered the paper, his face a mixture of shame and anger. “Do you really believe that you’re just a copy of Viktor?”

“What does it matter? Everyone else thinks so.” Despite having grown past his youthful irritation, Yuri still knew how to throw a fit.

“I don’t.” The quiet confession threw Yuri for a loop, and he sat forward, trying to read Otabek’s expression. He wouldn’t have had a problem in person; he’d gotten very good at reading the subtle nuances of his boyfriend’s face over the years. But Skype pixelated it too much to see if his eyebrows were drawn in more than usual, or if he had the stubborn tilt to his chin. Hastily, Yuri fullscreened the Skype window, only to find Otabek’s expression smooth. If there had been something, it was gone by the time Yuri thought to look for it.

Otabek continued, snapping Yuri out of his reverie. “And my question still stands: do you think you’re just a copy?”

Yuri discarded the newspaper, leaning back in his desk chair as he thought. “I don’t think so.”

“You don’t sound very convincing.”

“Well, I’m not sure anymore, alright?” The blond threw his hands in the air, frustrated with himself, with the world, with that _damn_ newspaper for printing that _stupid_ article. “Maybe I am just replicating Viktor. I was watching some of his old videos, and we move similarly.”

“That’s just because you’re taught by the same man.” Otabek was sounding more irritated now, and Yuri could see a deep frown on his lips. “It might have been fair of them to draw this equivalence when you made your debut, but you’re your own skater now, Yuri.” As if he could read the discontentment on Yuri’s face—and he very well might be able to—he softened, continuing. “I think you’re better than he was at his peak.”

Yuri gaped, shaking his head. “No way. No fucking way. No one’s better than Viktor.”

“You beat his world record—several times now.” Otabek held up his hand, listing off items on his fingers as he went. “You’re on track to win as many golds as he did, at an earlier age. You put more quads into your program than he did when he was 18. And—” he flashed a grin, teeth showing white in the dim light of his room. “It is my academic opinion that you are better looking than he is.”

The Russian stared at him for a long moment before bursting out laughing, holding his sides. Any resemblance of a braid his hair might have had came undone as he shook. After a few moments, he forced himself to get under control. “Thanks, Beka,” he said quietly, a little smile flicking across his lips. That smile faded, however, as his gaze dropped to the newspaper, discarded on the floor.

Otabek traced his gaze, the mood thoroughly ruined now. When Otabek spoke next, he had an aggression in his tone that was uncommon in the normally-quiet man.

“You still don’t believe me, do you?”

Yuri looked up, meeting steady dark eyes. His throat went dry.

“Do you need me to prove it? Prove that you’re better than Nikiforov?” At a loss for words, Yuri could do nothing but watch as Otabek drew back from the camera, his hand moving down to undo the front of his jeans. “Is your grandfather home?”

The question came as a surprise, but the reason soon became apparent as Otabek shoved his pants down his legs, leaving himself in just underwear. Yuri cleared his throat, finding his voice. “No, he’s out shopping.”

“Good.” Otabek gestured with a jerk of his head toward Yuri, one eyebrow arched. “Come on. I’m going to show you just how _special_ you are.”

And even though there was over three thousand kilometers separating them, even though the time difference meant that the light coming in through Yuri’s windows was long gone from Otabek’s, Yuri felt himself growing hard at the thought of seeing Otabek nude once more.

He stripped in a hurry, standing up from his chair to rid himself of his clothing as fast as possible. Gone was his usual grace, replaced with a haste fueled by need. They’d slept together, of course, in short periods of time caught after tournaments or quiet, week-long vacations to one another. But this would be the first time they’d attempted anything more than a few pictures sent at odd hours of the night.

When he sat down in his chair once more, fully nude, he found Otabek already stroking himself. At some point, most likely when Yuri had been tripping out of his underwear, Otabek had summoned a bottle of lube from somewhere. The mic was picking up the lewd squishing noise each movement made, and for a moment, Yuri just watched.

That is, until Otabek growled out his name. Then Yuri got to work, pawing through a desk drawer for his own tube.

Truth be told, Yuri wasn’t surprised that this was happening. There had been a _tension_ recently, and with the competition season amping up, it would be impossible for them to visit one another. They had both agreed, at the start of it all, to put skating first. Occasionally, that meant sacrificing their love life—but that was okay, as long as one of them walked away with that precious gold medal swinging around their neck.

But that just meant that they had reached a tipping point, and that the mutual release was craved. As Yuri watched, fascinated, Otabek’s tongue darted out, and he licked his lips.

“Yuri,” he whispered, dark eyes sliding closed as his hand continued to move. Yuri was quick to follow, matching Otabek’s pace eager.

Then Otabek opened his eyes once more and stared directly into the camera, and a shiver went down the blond’s spine. “Beka?” he asked, his hand momentarily stilling as the silence stretched on.

The Kazakh reached out, grabbing his computer’s shitty webcam and tilting it down. He fumbled with it for a few moments, and when it stilled, the angle had changed. The top of the camera barely reached his lips, while the rest gave Yuri an unobstructed view of Otabek’s nude form.

“You are _special,_ Yuri,” Otabek insisted, the frame barely catching his lips moving. “Do you think I would do this for Viktor?” As he spoke, his hand disappeared out of frame and reappeared holding the bottle once more. He squeezed some out onto his hand and shifted, lifting his legs and resting his ankles on the desk.

“What are you—”

“Shh,” Otabek shushed him easily, his fingers trailing down past his balls. “You know I wouldn’t do this for anyone else, right?” Yuri’s mouth dried up completely as it became _entirely_ obvious what the dark-haired man had planned. In the handful of times they’d actually had sex, it had always been Yuri who had been on the receiving end. It just seemed like the natural way for things to progress; but now that Otabek was preparing to spread himself open for just Yuri to see, he took a moment to wonder why they hadn’t tried changing it up.

Before he could voice those thoughts, Otabek had pushed a finger inside of himself, teeth worrying into his lower lip. The entire sight was almost too much for Yuri, who hurried to resume stroking himself as he watched, captivated by the poorly-lit scene unfolding before him.

Otabek was mostly silent as he opened himself up with first one, then two fingers, but seemed to pull himself back to focus as his third pressed up against the others, seeking entrance. “Do you like this, Yura?” he asked softly, shifting his hips up to give Yuri a better view—as if there was anything left to the imagination. Before Yuri could respond, he continued. “This is just for you.”

“Otabek,” Yuri gasped out, drawing his thumb over the head of his cock. He could feel the familiar build in his stomach, one that meant he wouldn’t last much longer, but he needed to draw this out as much as possible.

“Ah,” Otabek sighed, and as Yuri watched, the skin around his neck began to flush. When Otabek blushed, it was a full-body experience, expanding from his cheeks down to his chest. It was a rare sight, which just meant that he was about to say something he found _truly_ embarrassing.

And Yuri wasn’t let down. “I want—I want you to fuck me, Yuri. God, please.”

That was all Yuri needed. With a sharp cry, keeping his eyes glued to the screen, he came. Otabek followed a moment later, the simultaneous motion of his hand on his cock and the fingers pressed inside himself drawing out an intense orgasm.

The both sat back, their heavy breathing only sound filling the space between them. After what felt like an eternity, Otabek smiled faintly.

“Did that convince you?”

“That was fucking awesome,” Yuri replied, struggling to form words in his post-orgasmic haze. “Did you mean it?”

Otabek didn’t even question what Yuri was referring to. “I never say anything I don’t mean.”

The Russian shuddered, his mind racing with possibilities. “Can we do that again?”

He heard Otabek’s laugh, then watched as his boyfriend leaned over to grab a tissue. It reminded him of his own mess. He’d clean that up eventually. “I don’t think I have another go in me just yet.”

“I didn’t mean now, I meant—before we see each other next. You know?”

Otabek hummed, dragging the tissue across his stomach. “I believe that can be arranged.”

Yuri grinned, content to watch Otabek’s languid movements for a moment longer. “Good. I’ll look forward to it, then.”

And judging by the wicked smirk Otabek flashed him, he was looking forward to it, too.

 

* * *

 

 

Once he'd finished cleaning himself off, Yuri said goodbye to his boyfriend and pulled some clothes on. The sweatpants hung low on his hips, but he figured that his grandfather shouldn't be home yet—there shouldn't be a problem.

Much to his surprise, Nikolai stood in the kitchen, putzing around. He looked like he had started to make dinner, when something distracted him.

“Grandpa,” Yuri called, lifting an eyebrow as the old man turned to face at him. Was that embarrassment coloring his cheeks?

“Yurochka,” Nikolai replied, keeping his gaze firmly trained on the counter between them. “You know I support you and your boyfriend no matter what, yes?”

Yuri stared at Nikolai, a frown building on his lips. He had a bad feeling about this. “Yes. What’s your point?”

His grandfather stalled for a moment longer, grabbing a towel and wiping clean an already-spotless part of the sink. “Well. I have a simple request. Next time you two indulge in… activities, I ask that you pity a poor old man and use headphones.”

It took Yuri a second to fully understand the implications of what he meant, and then—

“What the _fuck?”_ It came out as a shriek, and Yuri fled, darting back to his room and slamming the door behind him. A litany of curses could be heard by Nikolai, who shook his head.

“That boy is going to give me a heart attack,” he said with a soft sigh, before getting on with cooking dinner.

**Author's Note:**

> ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
> 
> #sorrynotsorry
> 
> I live for comments. Please validate me.


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